


Blue Hawaii

by RedChucks



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Elvis Presley Songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 19:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20711069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: Post-series Howard and Vince discover the magic that is Paul Panfer.Yeah, I’m in my thirties, and yeah it is technically the year twenty-nineteen, and yeah yeah this is technically a songfic. But it’s an Elvis song, so... yeah, that's worse.Paul Panfer made me do it. He came and hassled me in my sleep and forced me to finish it and he wasn't too patient so my apologies for the state of this.





	Blue Hawaii

** _****The present. The flat above the Nabootique. The back projection suggests rain. The twinkling of the streetlights and sweet music suggests romance. The flat is decorated with brightly painted cardboard palm trees, paper flowers, and other paraphernalia associated with a Hawaiian luau. ****_ **

_“Wise men say... only fools rush in... But I can’t help... falling in love... with... you...”_

Vince let out a shuddering breath as Howard’s large hand caressed his back, pressing his cheek in to the bigger man’s Hawaiian shirt and letting himself melt, just a little, as the gentle crooning swept them both up. He’d never imagined the plan would go so well, that they’d actually end up like this - slow dancing to an Elvis song of all things - it seemed too good to be true. The part of his brain that hadn’t gone completely fuzzy ‘round the edges was trying to warn him that it was probably a trap, or would all end with humiliation and loneliness like always, but Vince did his best to block that voice out and get lost in the moment.

He hated that nasal, narky, voice in his head, and rarely listened to it if he could help it. Even if it was usually right. After all, Vince’s plans usually backfired spectacularly or turned out to actually be really terrible plans that he never should have contemplated seriously in the first place. (Like writing ‘Howard Moon licks balls for money’ on the front of the shop. Howard had been furious about it, but worse than that, he’d got a ton of attention from love-sick monsters who’d all threatened to take him away and out of Vince’s reach. Vince couldn’t be having that. He wanted Howard all to himself, completely his own and no one else’s. He wanted Howard to be as obsessed with Vince as he was with Jazz - or as obsessed with Vince as Vince was with Howard.) Vince’s plans were never actually as good as they seemed in his head. They never went the way he wanted, or the way Plan Pony claimed they would go, and even when he managed to actually save the day and pull Howard out of danger, it never quite went down like it did in the movies. It never ended with a kiss and a declaration of love.

Well... it had once. Except that he’d been so shocked that the plan had actually worked that he’d mucked it up royally, and pushed Howard away instead of reeling him in (just like he always did). And then, when it turned out that his romantic moonlit kiss wasn’t the real ending at all, only a false one, and he’d had to make do with going back to being Howard’s friend - his pathetic, little, sidekick once again - he’d wanted to cry. Instead he’d pretended he was fine with it, just like he always did, making do with Howard’s big hand holding his as they bounced together on the inflatable castle he’d hired as the ultimate grand gesture. 

A hand hold from Howard was a pretty rare and special thing, Vince had reassured himself at the time, and he had wanted to really revel in the feel of it, of Howard’s musician’s hands - all calluses and strong fingers - but he couldn’t quite forget that Howard was also holding hands with Diva. Couldn’t quite forget that she was the one who Howard was really interested in. Vince had felt like a cross between wingman and ‘the other woman’ that night, and in the weeks that followed, before Diva finally decided she was sick of Howard ‘the slow moving gentleman’ Moon.

If he felt like being truly honest (a rarity), Vince would admit that he may have played up his role of Howard’s mistress during those two weeks. He’d flirted as much as he possibly could and had worn his most revealing and feminine outfits, the ones that screamed “Protect Me From The Monsters!” and always set off Howard’s protective instincts. He’d been a proper little bitch about it if he was honest, but Vince didn’t feel like being honest, not about any of that, not now when he was finally in Howard’s arms. He had other things he needed to be honest about tonight and they were going to be difficult enough without a flash back to all of the moments in his life when he’d lied to, and about, his best friend. Nobody needed to see that montage of cringeworthy moments (and outfits), not when in the present moment he was pressed up against Howard’s warmth, tucked against him in a way that made him feel safe and protected and exactly where he’d always wanted to be. 

_“Shall I stay... would it be... a... sin...”_

By Jagger, Vince thought, he could stay like this forever, breathing in the smell of Howard’s soap and the cinnamon and sandalwood aftershave Vince had bought him for Christmas a few years ago; and Lady Grey tea, and homemade oatmeal and raisin biscuits, and other miscellaneous, household smells that Howard accumulated day to day. He smelt of warmth and homeliness and safety and Vince breathed deep, rubbing his nose to the soft chest before him, fluttering his eyes open briefly to take in their cluttered and colourful living room, and the Hawaiian decorations he’d spent the day putting up. He’d never expected the plan to work, not in a million years, and certainly not this well, but he wasn’t about question a bit of good luck. He snuggled further in to Howard’s arms, his heart singing and kicking its heels when Howard held him tighter instead of pushing him away. He’d been hoping for this for so long and couldn’t quite believe that it was actually happening, that Howard had finally fallen in love with him. If things continued to go well, if they could finally take this molten sexual tension between them to its logical conclusion, then Vince knew he’d need to make a new shrine come the morning. He had an awful lot to thank Paul Panfer for.

_“If I can’t help... falling in love... with... you...”_

** _****One week earlier. The flat above the Nabootique. The back projection suggests late afternoon sun. A taxidermied cat watches the action from atop a roof on the other side of the street. Paul King has washed the scene in a slightly rose-tinted light****_ **

“What-” Howard declared in a self-righteous whine as he slunk in to the living room - his first appearance since the day before when he’d stormed up to his room, travel-worn and stained with the remnants of metaphorical humble pie splashed across his face. He had been trying to escape Vince’s laughter at seeing Howard as the Angry Crab of Trapped Wind but knew he couldn’t avoid his old friend forever. “What in the name of Brian ever-living Christ is that rubbish!?”

Vince startled and nearly slid off the couch at the sound of Howard’s voice, but when he   
looked up from his laptop there was a bright grin stretched across his face and he immediately jumped to his feet, tucking in his shoulders and ducking his head to look up at Howard through his fringe. 

“Alright, Howard?”

Howard had been ready for snark, for Vince’s lip to curl or for the sharp glint in his eye which indicated that he was really only smiling at Howard’s expense, but instead he looked hopeful, his grin bright and eyes large and eternally, startlingly, blue. It reminded Howard of the way Vince had looked when they were young, the way he’d gazed up at Howard like Howard was actually worth something, like he really was a man of action. Adoring, his mother had called that look, but Mama Moon had always worn rose tinted glasses where little Vince Noir was concerned and Howard had long ago learned to ignore his mother’s voice in his head when it chirped that Vince adored him. Vince adored sugary sweets and their shiny wrappers and being popular - he certainly didn’t adore Howard Moon. 

He turned his attention back to the mess of colour on the laptop, the video Vince had paused at Howard’s entrance in to the room. Looking at Vince’s pink rhinestone encrusted computer always gave Howard a headache but today it was even worse than usual and Howard could feel his eyes beginning to swim with the effort of looking at the screen without squinting and leaving himself open to further mockery. He knew his eyes were a perfectly reasonable size but if he dared to squint against the glare and vomit-like spattering of colour on the small screen.

“Who is that... tit mouse?” he asked, waving vaguely at the blue, humanoid blur on the screen. As insults went it wasn’t one of his best but instead of scoffing or calling him out for it, Vince let out a small, ever so slightly goofy, laugh. 

“Aw, Howard. I’ve missed your insults. He’s a panther, not a mouse,” Vince told him, leaning in to his space and biting his bottom lip. “But you’re right about the tits. His name’s Paul Panfer. He’s an internet sensation! He’s genius.”

Skipping back to his seat on the overstuffed black and white couch, Vince looked up at him hopefully and Howard accepted the action as the olive branch it was. After all, there were two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table by the laptop, and a plate stacked high with an assortment of cream filled biscuits. Vince was making an effort.

“Alright,” Howard sighed dramatically, sitting down with a huff on the couch and trying not to smile when the cushions, as ever, brought their hips together like magnets drawn to each other with, well... with magnetic force. “Show me the latest fancy man who’s caught your eye this week. Really, you’re like a magpie, Vince - your eyes always drawn from one pretty bauble to another. You should explore the classics more, take a leaf out of my book. Watch something with some substance instead of just a lot of hot air and noise.”

Once again he was ready for Vince to jump on his words and pour forth scorn upon him - if he was honest he was angling for it now, nervous that the fight hadn’t already started - but Vince just began to bounce in his seat, his short fingers fluttering excitedly as he smiled at Howard even more broadly than before. 

“But that’s just it, Howard!” Vince enthused, his left hand flittering up to touch Howard’s arm for the briefest moment before he tucked it away with a clatter and chime of bangles and bracelets. “Paul Panfer is classic! He’s the ultimate classic! He’s reinventing the classics for a new generation, yeah? This one’s called ‘Blue Hawawe’ and it’s a psychedelic re-imagining of a movie called ‘Blue Hawaii’ starring a guy named Elvis. It’s genius!”

Howard gave him a droll look. “You know Elvis Presley?”

The look Vince gave him in return was just on the edge of scathing, and the first not to be overly bright and enthusiastic, and Howard blinked in surprise. 

“Everyone who knows anything knows Elvis, Howard. I’m not a complete idiot. I’m surprised that you know who he is though. ‘Blue Hawaii’ was only made fifty years ago. Isn’t that a bit too modern for you?” 

“I’m not that old,” Howard snapped, suddenly ready to spring from the couch and storm away. He would have done so too if his knees hadn’t protested, and the little reminder that maybe he was getting old, really was turning in to some hoary old wizard, stoked Howard’s anger even more. He should have known that Vince wasn’t trying to make amends, that this was all just an elaborate scheme to belittle him. But before he could jump to his feet (or creak upwards slowly) Vince’s hands were fluttering about again and he was looking up with eyes so wide and crystal blue that Howard wondered how he managed it, or whether it was some sort of special effects trick.

“I know, I know,” Vince reassured quickly. “We’re the same age, ain’t we? Noir and Moon, the unstoppable pair, rocking the duo look since birth!” 

He scooped up Howard’s mug and handed it to him, as if the hot beverage would keep Howard from leaving, and Howard sat back begrudgingly and took a sip. He’d never admit to taking sugar in his tea - he’d learned long ago from his father that a real man drank his tea strong and simple - but he appreciated that Vince never remembered that fact and added the single scoop of sweetener anyway. Tea without sugar really was just a bit too bitter for Howard’s tastes but he hated to think about what that said about him, or what his father would say if he knew. 

“Yes, well,” he said, mollified by Vince’s attention and the plate of biscuits thrust under his nose invitingly. “So long as you don’t go forgetting.”

Vince shook his head earnestly as he picked himself a custard cream, but instead of jamming the whole thing in his mouth in one go like he usually did, he began to turn the biscuit over in his fingers, letting crumbs fall like tiny snow flakes on to the colourfully patterned skirt/sarong/robe he was wearing.

“I just meant that you like, ya know, proper retro, yeah? Like, black and white films, and,” he swallowed thickly, “jazz. Howard Moon doesn’t flit about on the winds of fashion was all I was saying. Ain’t that right, Howard?”

Howard felt a warmth beginning to spread through him. It might have been the tea but Howard suspected a different cause. As much as he wanted to be impervious he knew deep down in his boots that flattery would win him over every time, especially when it came from Vince. And especially-specially when it involved fluttering eyelashes and any display of Vince’s knock knees and pigeon toes. 

“I guess that’s true,” he conceded, hating how good it felt to see Vince smile up at him so brightly again. “But Howard Moon is a man of many tastes and interests you know, Vince. I’ve more than a few Elvis records in my collection. And I’ve actually seen ‘Blue Hawaii’, which is more than you or any of the other trendies watching this rubbish can probably say.”

“It’s not rubbish,” Vince shot back, his voice catching just a little in his throat as the petulance started to creep in. “It’s genius! You should check it out. You might like it. I’ve watched it twelve times already. It’s really good. Promise.”

Howard wanted to give a dramatic sigh, or to launch in to a lecture on why it was bad for Vince to spend so long staring at a computer screen when he could be doing something more productive, but another glance in his friend’s direction reminded him that he couldn’t say no when Vince was looking up at him like that. He always gave in, in the end.

“Fine,” he acceded, sitting back on the couch and lifting his arm for Vince to settle in to place beside him. “We’ll watch your latest obsession and pretend it’s high art, shall we? At least it’ll make a change from ‘Herbie Goes Bananas’. I didn’t miss that in Denmark.”

His skin itched at how close Vince was but he couldn’t make himself move, and the heat and friction of proximity was actually a welcome distraction from the colour saturated mess that was Paul Panfer. It reminded Howard of the plays they’d put on as kids, in costumes pulled from Mama Moon’s old clothes chests, with backdrops and props made out of paper that Vince had coloured in with crayon. Even the music reminded Howard of their earliest performances, and the sock puppets too, but there were definitely more tits in the Paul Panfer production and Howard tried not to stare too obviously. Diva had showed him her... well, her breasts... but Howard just hadn’t been ready at the time, after only two weeks of courtship, to do anything more than stare, even when she’d told him that he could touch, even when she had ordered him to, in fact. Howard just hadn’t been ready, and so Diva had dumped him, leading to Howard’s downward spiral in to Danish avant-garde cinema which ended with his role as the crustacean personification of a trapped fart. The role had suited him to a T.

Touching others was just so difficult, Howard admitted as he tried to focus on the film, sipping his tea and running his fingers absently across the back of the couch, feeling the heat radiating from Vince’s shoulder. Carefully, barely aware of what he was doing, Howard let his fingers trail lower, stroking through the silky strands of Vince’s hair. Howard had missed the feel of Vince’s hair, and the smell of it, since he’d been away, and when he’d been obsessed with Diva. So much so that the familiar softness of it, and the smell of strawberries, made him feel giddy, like he was drunk. Diva’s hair products had all been scented with coconut and something about the smell had triggered Howard’s fight/flight/freeze reflex no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. It didn’t matter that he adored her, and told himself that he loved her, he just couldn’t get past the smell of coconuts and the way the thin, sweet smelling, water had felt trickling between his fingers as he’d checked for Precious Lilywhite’s pulse. Every time he’d kissed Diva the smell of coconutty homicide had overwhelmed him and he’d had to fight the need to run to Vince for help.

Vince. Vince, who always managed to smell of strawberries - strawberries and cream. Howard’s fingers traced their way down absently past Vince’s hair to the bare skin of his shoulder, where his blouse had slipped (or had actually been carefully positioned just so by Vince in accordance with that week’s boho fashion). He didn’t like being touched, as a rule, and preferred not to touch others if he could help it, but somehow his body always seemed to seek out Vince’s, no matter how hard he resisted, like Vince was the living incarnation of the security blanket his father had insisted he give up at the age of six when he caught Howard behaving in a ‘babyish’ manner. Howard had cried and cried over that blanket. It didn’t matter to him that he’d worn holes in the corners from rubbing the soft fabric between finger and thumb, his blanket was perfect in his eyes, frays and all. His blanket had smelled like safety. Just like Vince. 

‘Blue Hawawe’ was strangely engrossing once Howard set aside his annoyance at the butchering of a classic film. The disjointed strangeness and playful psychedelia along with the garbled speech and off kilter camera work actually put Howard in mind ‘The Doctor and the Pencil’; it was playful and naive, yet far from innocent. Which was somehow also entirely like Vince, and just the sort of thing he loved. By the end of it Howard was actually enjoying himself, swept up in the silliness and Vince’s cackling laughter and joyful squirming. They’d eaten their way through the entire plate of biscuits and Howard was silently planning out a week’s worth of recipes to avoid the travesty of having store bought biscuits in the flat. (Howard was still fairly new to the world of baking. He’d stumbled upon the hobby after a comment Vince had once made about Mrs. Gideon, but that’s another story for another time.) Vince was looking a little malnourished and Howard couldn’t be having that. Vince thought he could manage on his own but Howard knew better, knew he never should have left Vince on his own. Vince thought he survive on sweet biscuits and little cakes and had no idea that Howard had been hiding vegetables in brownies and malt loaf and pancakes for years. 

Vince needed him, Howard realised, and it felt nice to be needed.

He was so busy floating on the warm fuzzy feelings of being needed, of being surrounded by Vince’s warmth and safety, of watching something fun and childish, that it took him a moment to realise that the video had ended and that they were watching a strange montage of Paul Panfer surfing along with credits that featured the names Paul Panfer, Tony Curtis, and Curtis Tony cycling ad nauseam.

“What?” Howard asked suddenly, addressing the laptop directly as he jolted forward and dislodged Vince, who fell from the couch with a yelp and a flurry of purple, peacock blue, and burgundy fabrics. 

“What d’you mean, what?” Vince squawked, looking up at Howard through his mussed hair. “It was good, wasn’t it? I thought you were enjoying it. You were even singing along to some of the songs. Old crooner Moon back in action, I thought. And you were smiling. I saw you. Don’t pretend you weren’t. I was actually worried you couldn’t see the screen, you were smiling so wide, turning your eyes in to two little peppercorns on ya big naan bread face. You can’t act like you didn’t enjoy it now just ‘cos you’ve realised I caught you liking something without subtitles and a depressing sound track.”

Vince was babbling, the words spilling out of his expressive mouth like a strange, Spike Milligan, stream of consciousness poem, and Howard wondered what had flustered him so badly because Vince normally only got like that when he was embarrassed and was desperately seeking to distract from whatever had caused him to feel that way. Perhaps he worried that Howard would mock him for liking the video now that he’d seen it for himself. It seemed unlikely because Howard could tell from the number of views and likes on the video that Paul Panfer was indeed incredibly popular and Vince had never felt ashamed of liking anything popular. It was a puzzle. Then again, Vince’s embarrassment was probably just the result of his outfit being in disarray. He was probably more annoyed than embarrassed and, after spending some genuinely pleasant time together Howard didn’t want to start an argument. He’d pushed Vince off the couch and he needed to make amends, a gesture of apology. He’d missed his time with Vince - time spent sitting around watching outlandish television or weaving silly tales and improbable stories - he’d genuinely missed it more than he’d realised and he didn’t want to be the cause of a renewed rift between them. 

He quickly relaxed his shoulders and spine so that he looked less like he wanted to throw hands with a pink sparkly laptop and offered his hand to help Vince back on to the couch. He even made an attempt at smiling but Vince just looked wary in return so Howard hid his lips behind his hand, making a show of smoothing out his moustache until Vince’s expression softened towards him.

“Sorry, Vince,” he said sheepishly. “I was just surprised is all. Considering how closely they actually stuck to the script of the original film, and how many of the songs they... covered,” he gave another smile, though this one was far more strained and he abandoned it quickly. The tunes of the songs had been recognisable but the lyrics had definitely been more Paul Panfer based than the Elvis versions. “I was just surprised at the one they missed out is all. It’s probably the best song in the film. It’s a song to work magic on a man, a song to move people and make a change in the world. Not to mention one of my favourite...”

He tried to hide his hesitation but like a sharp eyed shrew Vince saw the sign of weakness and leapt on it, jumping back on to the couch and digging his knees in to Howard’s thigh as he leaned in to Howard’s space.

“One of your what?” Vince grinned mischievously, looking at Howard with an intensity that was terrifying in a way that no monster had ever been. Howard liked to think of himself as a man of mystery, a closed book wrapped in a shroud of unknowingness in a language too advanced for normal human minds to comprehend, each chapter of his mind a poem of infinite complexity and beauty. Vince was a well known dyslexic (he couldn’t even spell the word to start) and it was galling to admit that Vince could read him the way he read his ridiculous Charlie books and fashion magazines. Vince knew he was hiding something and it was only a matter of time before he weaseled it out of Howard and crowed his victory to anyone who would listen, adding another notch to Howard’s long and sorry history of embarrassing moments. “One of your favourite whats, Howard?”

The urge to give in and just tell Vince was strong but Howard was no longer the bumbling, blind man he had once been. He’d learnt quite a lot whilst in Denmark and he didn’t intend to tell Vince anything ahead of time. He still had his pride after all. Somewhere.

Vince was still looking at him, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to hold back his laughter, Howard supposed, but Howard wasn’t going to give in, oh no, not even when the look Vince was giving him was making his heart hammer near painfully in his chest, which was in turn making another part of his body grow near painful too. He really had learnt quite a lot in Denmark, including an awful lot about repressed sexuality and the many and varied reasons why a thirty-three year old man might be reluctant to let anyone touch him, or to engage in any sort of intimate acts with a woman he felt very certain he aught to want. And about feelings he had long felt but not understood about a certain best friend.

“Never mind,” he mumbled, his words a splash of grey, dirty, water in the rainbow of Vince’s sunshine smile, and didn’t wait to see Vince’s grin slip from his face as his eyes turned downward to his blouse and the silver thread that was threatening to break as Vince wound it around and around between his fingers. “I’m not in the mood to be mocked, Vince,” he sighed, standing up with a creak of his knees. “Not anymore. We’re not children anymore, threatening each other with tickles and mocking each other for every show of emotion or sentimentality. I’m too old for all that, Vince. And I understand that you and I are very different people, and that’s... that’s okay. I’m a romantic, Vince. There’s no shame in that, but no need to turn it in to more than it is, for either of us. I’m sorry this didn’t work out, but at least we tried, eh? And the movie wasn’t as bad as I was expecting,” he said in an attempt to placate the man squirming on the couch beneath him. “Thanks for spending time with me, though. It was nice. Like old times.”

His words petered out as he looked at the deep confusion on Vince’s beautiful face before turning away and walking back to their room - his room. Of course Vince had no idea what Howard was talking about. He had no idea how Howard felt, had always felt, or what it meant for Howard to come back to their flat above the Nabootique today, on the anniversary of their moving in together, the day they’d finally been able to call a room their own, a room they had shared for two glorious years before... before the Nightmare of Milky Joe had torn their friendship apart. Howard wasn’t quite sure what had happened but it had destroyed the careful balance that was their relationship.

Well, Howard admitted to himself as he closed his bedroom door on the sight of Vince staring out in to space, his face still beautifully, stupidly, confused, he did know what had happened, he had a very good memory. But he wasn’t sure why those particular events had resulted in Vince turning against him, turning cold, and deciding to move out of their shared room and in to the eccentric room known as ‘The Parlor’. It all circled back to the island but that was all Howard knew for sure. Perhaps Vince, like Howard, just couldn’t forget the night Howard had murdered Precious and feared he would meet the same fate if they continued to share a room. Howard had drawn that line in the sand after all. Vince had tried to create a paradise for them on that island and instead Howard had turned it in to a nightmare.

They had both made attempts to fix things of course, but their olive branches had been sickly and wilting and offered with no true desire to follow through. As much as Howard lo... Howard tried again, to think the word even if he struggled to say it after such disappointment in the past. As much as he lo... lov... Howard groaned, pushing his forehead against his bedroom door. Even in his head he could no longer say it. As much as he felt... deep and sensual emotions... for Vince, on an emotional and physical level, he knew couldn’t go back to the unsatisfied shambles that their life was becoming. They couldn’t seem to do anything but argue and hurt one another and Howard could see now that he had been deluding himself thinking he could return to the flat and carry on as before. He’d almost admitted the truth just now, after watching that ludicrous film, but knew he couldn’t let himself slip up in such a way. He couldn’t bear to be mocked any longer, not by Vince. And he couldn’t pretend, not now that he’d actually learned the truth about himself, and he didn’t want to use Vince in such a way, when Vince only saw them as quasi-friends and nothing special.

Rubbing his hands down his face in exhaustion, Howard turned to his room, hating how empty the space seemed without Vince’s bed and overflowing wardrobes. He hadn’t bothered to replace the furniture with anything else. Secretly he’d hoped that Vince would change his mind and move back in once he tired of living in ‘The Parlor’, with its strange draft, and the way the double doors seemed to stick and required a hard shoulder to be put against them on cold mornings, and the way the wallpaper seemed to change and move out of the corner of the eye - the diamonds becoming ovals and then stars, or possibly pentagrams. Looking at the fading paper directly caused nausea and headaches which all meant that Howard avoided the room as much as possible, which had in turn led to his ignoring Vince more as well. Naboo had claimed vehemently (or as vehemently as someone with a gently stoned South London lisp could manage) that ‘The Parlor’ wasn’t ‘technically’ haunted, whatever that meant, but Howard had still held out hope that Vince would tire of the not-haunting and come back, but he hadn’t.

The one real positive of having his own room was being able to play whatever he liked on his lovingly cared for old record player and Howard sloped across the room to his collection of LPs, trying to put Vince out of his mind. Normally this sort of dark mood required an intense, old school, jazz session but instead his fingers found their way to his selection of Elvis records and he pulled one free with a strange mixture of emotions roiling in his gut. The walls in the flat were thick and fairly soundproof (thanks to Naboo, Howard suspected) but he still worried that Vince would hear the song he wanted to listen to. In some way he wanted Vince to hear, to hear and understand, but he also knew deep down that if Vince heard, and then mocked him for his choice, he would have to leave immediately and never come back.

He hovered over the dust coated player for a long moment, turning the record around in his hands, listening hard for any sign that Vince was listening in at his door, but there was only silence and eventually Howard assumed Vince had gone out. There was likely a sale on at TopShop. More than likely Vince had already forgotten every word that Howard had said and wouldn’t think of it again. He lay the record in place and carefully positioned the needle, and sat down on his narrow, hard, bed, wondering what he could do next. He had wanted to make biscuits, he remembered that, but it could probably wait. He curled up on his bed, letting the crooning, romantic, words wash over him as he let his mind drift and eventually fell asleep, completely unaware that in ‘The Parlor’, Vince was mimicking his position exactly.

_ ********* _

Vince lay on his soft bed, piled with pillows and stuffed animals, staring at his laptop and wondering how such a cheerful movie could leave him feeling so... he tried to search for the right word, but all he could think of was ‘sad’. He felt sad, which wasn’t a feeling he liked, or one that he ever intentionally spent any time dwelling in. He’d experienced too much of it during the two weeks Howard had been gone and had hoped that with Howard’s return his good mood would too. Instead he felt worse. He didn’t like feeling this way. It was bad enough dealing with the ever-present pining and feelings of love sickness whenever he looked at, talked to, or thought about Howard. It always came down to Howard in Vince’s mind, where emotions were concerned. It always came down to Howard.

He hadn’t meant to tease Howard. Well, he had actually, but only in the normal, good natured way, like they’d always done. He hadn’t meant for it to turn mean, hadn’t realised he’d missed the mark and slipped from gentle ribbing to bitchiness. It was like when Howard had been going with Diva; he’d wanted to be friendly, had even thought he was succeeding at being friendly, only to realise later that he’d been anything but. It was frustrating and made him feel ashamed, and Vince didn’t like those feelings either.

The only thing he was feeling that he actually understood right then was confused - that at least was a familiar feeling, if not a pleasant one. Why had Howard made such a point of mentioning that he was a romantic. Did he think Vince wasn’t a romantic? Did he want Vince to be romantic? It was a long shot. Howard didn’t want Vince to be anything these days, not even his friend apparently, and the truth of it - and the fact that Vince was the reason for it - made him feel sick. He’d been so angry, and so focused on punishing Howard for not realising what he’d done and how Vince felt, that he’d finally succeeded in pushing Howard away entirely. He’d made Howard leave, and he’d spent two weeks hating himself for it.

It was a mess and Vince wasn’t good at cleaning up messes. He usually left that to Howard and even when he was the one doing the cleaning (like when they’d been back at the zoo and he’d discovered the joy of wielding a shammy leather) he relied on Howard’s guidance. He wasn’t reliable enough to wield a spray bottle, let alone whatever magical cleaning product he’d need in order to fix this mess. But he needed to fix it nevertheless, only now he needed to do it on his own, even though Howard was back and only one room away. It was a mess.

With nothing better to do, Vince rolled over on to his stomach, opened up his laptop and typed in a search for ‘Blue Hawaii’. Howard had mentioned something being his favourite, which was another reason why Vince felt sad and confused, because he’d thought he knew just about all of Howard’s favourite things. Then again, this was music, and Howard’s musical tastes were eclectic in the worst ways. The film appeared on Vince’s screen and he moved his cursor across to the play button, then paused before clicking on it. What if the original film was full of jazz? That could make sense. Paul Panfer would of course remove all trace of jazz from his remake, which in turn meant that of course Howard’s favourite song from the film would have been skipped for the safety of viewers like Vince who had an allergic reaction to jazz and all jazz-related content.

Perhaps it would be safer not to watch the film after all. He didn’t want his neck going all big again, not when he was still struggling to regain his status of King of Camden after the whole Black Tubes-balloon head... incident; not when he had to somehow make things up to Howard and try to get their friendship back on track. He couldn’t hope for more anymore, romance was out of the question, but he needed Howard to be his friend again. He needed to turn but the clock and go back to the way they’d used to be, back before the real world invaded their reality. He shut the laptop with a snap and fluffed his hair, frustrated again, and confused. He’d really thought that a fun film would help them mend their friendship, but instead he seemed to have made things worse. Apparently the film had been missing something.

Vince wasn’t convinced that a Paul Panfer film could be in any way lacking but Howard’s words still intrigued him. He wanted to understand what Howard had seen in the movie that Vince hadn’t, and how it differed from the original. Vince didn’t like not knowing something about Howard. He was more obsessed with Howard than he was with ‘Cheekbone Magazine’ (if less willing to admit it) and it was killing him that Howard liked something that Vince had no knowledge of. He wanted to understand what Howard considered so meaningful, what he held dear, what he considered romantic, why he didn’t consider Vince romantic.

Pouting at the implication that he was anything other than an absolute paragon of romance, Vince grabbed an antihistamine from the bottle on his bedside table, reopened his laptop, and made himself comfortable. He would watch ‘Blue Hawaii’ and he would understand how Howard felt and why. At the very least he wanted Howard back as a friend, even if Howard didn’t want him as anything else, and he was ready to do whatever he needed to do to fix it, even if it meant watching a really old film that potentially contained jazz.

_ ******Back in the present, so to speak. The flat above the Nabootique. The full moon has risen. There is a softness to the scene, a haziness that suggests pleasant intoxication.****** _

_“Like a river flows... surely to the sea... Darling so it goes...”_

Vince grinned, his heart flowing over like a quaint animation of a babbling brook splashing over stones and pebbles, bathed in sunset colours of orange, pink, and gold, the river of his love moving to match the dreamlike lyrics as he felt his body melting against Howard’s. Vince didn’t usually go in for poetry, that was Howard’s thing and Vince didn’t want to step in on his best friend’s territory (not like that anyway), but the music really had worked its magic on him the way Howard had said it would and every time he heard the silken voice his mind conjured up poetical images and phrases that Vince was sure he never would have thought of on his own.

It had inspired him so much that he’d spent the day dressing up their flat just like Howard’s favourite scene in ‘Blue Hawaii’, mixing drinks, and prepping food, trying to make everything perfect. He hadn’t cooked - Vince knew his limits and cooking was well beyond them. He’d bought the food though, and arranged it all tastefully on the platters he’d gathered from the back of the kitchen cupboards, just like he’d seen Howard do whenever he had his jazz club around to the flat and wanted to make a good impression.

Once that was done he’d dug through Howard’s record collection (whilst wearing gloves of course, because nothing could ruin a mood and make him feel miserable like being covered in jazz-induced hives) until he’d found the one with all of Howard’s favourite romantic songs on it, including the Elvis track he needed, reading through the track listings carefully, twice, to make sure that he had the right record and wasn’t going to make a fool of himself with an inappropriate song choice. He’d silently thanked whichever God of Hoarding counted Howard as a disciple when he found the record, and had promised to cut down on teasing Howard over his inability to get rid of anything music related, even if he never listened to it or used it anymore. Howard still had the records they’d bought when they were fourteen, back when they’d picked albums based on the cover art and how low the price was, and for the first time Vince had been able to appreciate what it meant to look back on things which might not be stylish any more, but which had value nevertheless, even if it was only sentimental, and not anything more tangible.

He’d gotten a little bit distracted actually, looking through the dog-eared records and the memories attached to them, and had been forced to rush his beauty routine a little in order to be ready and in place for when Howard slammed the street door and began to stomp up the stairs to the flat. Vince’d done his best to look as good as possible whilst also giving off the ‘natural’ vibe he knew Howard had a thing for, but for a moment, when Howard appeared at the top of the stairs, he’d worried that he looked absolutely hideous. Howard’s eyes had gone all big and his moustache had bristled like he was a cornered tomcat but then the music had started up, right on cue, and something in Howard’s stance had shifted, and then it had been easy - easier than Vince could ever have imagined.

And now here they were, slow dancing to what Vince was already thinking of as Their song, bellies full of pineapple and coconut themed desserts, pork and sweet potato, and Mai Tai’s, relaxed and happy in one another’s company in a way they hadn’t been for more years than Vince cared to count. It was glorious. So good that he wondered again if he was dreaming and couldn’t quite believe he’d gotten so lucky; things didn’t usually go so well for either of them. Usually there were a lot more kidnappings, freakish creatures composed of pink tape and crisp packets, aliens, and evil talking animals at this point. Vince had never managed to get this close to admitting his feelings for Howard without some sort of narrative intervention and it was a little disconcerting.

Chancing a glance around the room again Vince worried that the irrepressible need to check the stairs and windows for any sign of monsters was making him look like he had some sort of nervous tic but he just couldn’t help it. There were no monsters however, and no signs that this was another one of his dreams or a hairspray induced hallucination. Vince had finally got it right and nothing, not even his self-sabotaging brain, was going to ruin it.

Vince had worried, when Howard had come up the stairs scowling, that he had seriously misjudged their relationship and that Howard did not in fact feel any romantic-type feelings for him after all. Or any feelings at all, really. He’d worried about it a lot over the years actually, that Howard was only putting up with him, pretending to like him because he felt obligated, or sorry for him. It was a horrible thought and Vince didn’t want to dwell on it. He’d spent his life wanting - desperately - for Howard to like him and hated the thought of Howard only pretending to like him to save his feelings, or maintain his precious status qou. Of course, Howard didn’t even seem to pretend to like him that often any more, a truth which had caused Vince a lot of sleepless nights over the last year, especially since the nightmare that was their time on the island with Milky Joe, and the death of Precious Lilywhite.

He had so many regrets about his actions over the last twelve months, he’d been such a tit, trying to punish Howard for everything that’d gone wrong in their lives since the zoo had collapsed, for being pushed aside and treated like something less than a friend. Howard had made it clear on more than one occasion that he and Vince weren’t really friends anymore, no matter that Vince still introduced them as such, no matter that Vince wanted something more than friendship. Really tonight had been his last chance to show Howard how he felt and even as they’d been feeding each other chunks of whipped cream covered pineapple Vince had worried that Howard was only humouring him and didn’t really like him at all.

But if that really was the case then he’d definitely changed his tune now. Vince had never been held with such tenderness before. He could feel Howard’s affection, and dare he say it - love - radiating from him, and on top of that he could feel the quite physical proof of Howard’s desire against his leg too, which he quietly decided was the best kind of cheeky bonus. In response Vince pressed his own hard proof of affection against Howard’s thigh, showing him silently that he wasn’t alone in his desire, and that Vince was well up for a whole kingdom of gaydom if Howard was.

_“Some things... are meant to be...”_

Vince shivered as Howard changed his stance, pushing their groins together until Vince couldn’t help but let out a moan. He still hadn’t admitted how he felt, that he really did love Howard, completely and truly, but Howard seemed to understand his intentions and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Vince’s, so close that Vince could feel Howard’s breath against his lips, a delicious, sweetly scented temptation. He tilted his chin, turning to press his nose to Howard’s cheek so that when he had taken a few more steadying breaths he could press a kiss to Howard’s parted lips and whisper.

“...Howard...”

It was glorious, and Vince felt his ankles wobble in his heels as he tried to hold his body still, absorbing the feel of being held, of having Howard gasping in to his mouth, of being helpless in the best possible way.

“Hmm?” Howard responded mussily, startling Vince ever so slightly so that he stumbled against Howard, bringing their groins back in to delicious, heavy contact.

“Howard, I-” Vince shuddered at the way their bodies seemed to fit together so perfectly. He needed to tell Howard the truth, needed to admit how he was feeling, how he’d felt for so long, but instead gave in to the desire to kiss Howard again, melting as he heard and felt Howard groan in to his mouth and pull him close, his fingers tightening instinctively around Vince’s small and delicate ones.

_“Take my hand... take my whole... life... too...”_

“Vince,” Howard gasped as his chest heaved, his lungs as desperate for breath the way his lips were to recapture Vince’s lips once more, but he forced himself to speak instead, though it was the last thing his mouth wanted to do. “Vince this has been amazing. And you must know - you must know, Vince! - that I love you. I love you so much, Vince. I’ve been blind for so long, determined not to admit to the truth, burying those feelings even when they escaped, denying the truth. I love you, Vince. I love you.”

Vince lunged forward, grabbing on to Howard’s hair and dragging his hands along as well. The urge to laugh was so strong, like that river of love inside him was trying to spill over from its innocent animated home and out in to the real world, just like it always did when Howard said those words, only this time it was worse, because he could tell that Howard really did mean it. Howard loved him! He needed to laugh, to let the joy out, but knew he couldn’t give in to that urge. If he laughed Howard would never forgive him. So instead he kissed Howard with as much enthusiasm as he could muster which, Vince being Vince, was quite a lot.

In response Howard moved his hands down to clutch at Vince’s shoulders, responding to the movements of Vince’s tongue and lips with a clumsiness that was both endearing and a genuine turn-on. He was whining in to Vince’s mouth, squirming and rolling his hips like a puppy desperate for a proper petting and a good scratch behind the ears, and lucky for him Vince was an expert when it came to animals and knew just how to give an antsy pup what he needed. He ran his fingers through the untidy, soft as smoke, hair one last time, scraping his nails along Howard’s scalp just to hear him whine and rub against Vince’s floaty tunic, so hard Vince could feel the straining corduroy against his skin.

He continued to scrape with his fingers as his hands made their way down Howard’s torso and belly, loving the way it made him shiver, the fact that he, Vince Noir, the eternal side kick, the lowly apprentice that Howard had never cared enough to notice, finally had such power over the man he’d been obsessed with for most of his life. It made him feel a bit dizzy, like he was buzzing from caffeine, and Howard just kept making those delicious noises, like verbal candy, and Vince worried that he might not be able to hold himself back for much longer. He snuck his hands deftly down the front of Howard’s trousers, trying to ignore the fact that he enjoyed the softness and texture of the fabric, and focusing instead on the smooth sensation of Howard’s skin, more velvety than any fabric, and more exciting.

_“For I can’t help... falling in love... with... you...”_

As Vince’s hand reached it’s goal, helped along by his other hand skipping down the buttons of Howard’s flies, he felt like he might just fly apart and the urge to laugh returned, worse than before, and he redoubled his kisses to keep it in. He was so caught up in the moment that when Howard suddenly pulled back, gasping as their lips parted, the laughter that he’d kept bottled up escaped in the form of a squawk as he was sent stumbling in to one of the surfboards he’d made out of cardboard and poster paints the previous night.

“What the hell, Howard!”

The colourful props that Vince had worked so hard on toppled around him as he wobbled in his stacked sandals, the urge to laugh gone as if it hadn’t just been tickling the back of his teeth a moment before, and Vince felt enraged and hurt that after so long, and so much effort, he was being pushed away again. Chucked by Howard. Again. But then he looked up through his hair, mussed out of its carefully primped, retro, style, and saw Howard, his hair equally untidy and his cheeks flushed. He looked scared, Vince realised. More than that, he looked utterly terrified, worse than he had the night they’d caught Old Gregg hanging from the drainpipe outside their bedroom window. It was enough to steal Vince’s anger, just like the push had stolen his laughter, and Vince felt himself doing just what he always did, he found himself melting at the sight of the lost look on Howard’s vulnerable and easy to read face. Howard loved him, Vince could see it plain as day, and he was terrified about what that actually meant.

“Howard?”

“I- I- I... I’m sorry, Vince. I can’t do it,” Howard stuttered, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides as his eyes darted back and forth, not seeming to want to linger too long on any of the paper flowers or smiley faced pineapples. “I can’t just rush into things. I can’t do... that.”

“Oh.” Vince had been ready for something far more insulting, something that Howard found lacking in him, but it made sense. Howard had been weird about intimacy for years; Vince had been pushing for years. Even having admitted how they felt, that they loved each other, they were still stuck in limbo, only this time there were no pool tables or dart boards or amusingly cockney skeletons, there was just a tension that Vince knew he would have to ease with the greatest of care. There could be no laughing now, and no acting like he hadn’t enjoyed the kissing or that he hadn’t meant it as a declaration of love (he’d made that mistake on the rooftop and there was no way he wanted to do it again). “Aw, Howard.”

“I’m not- I don’t- I- I-” Howard continued to stutter as his eyes watered and Vince stepped forward quickly. There was nothing worse than watching Howard cry and he’d wanted this evening to be a nice one, full of music and food and gentleness, he’d wanted this to be the night he finally told Howard how he felt. He wanted to give Howard something as romantic as the scene in ‘Blue Hawaii’, as romantic as the song.

_“For I can’t help... falling in love... with... you...”_

“Howard,” Vince said carefully, taking another wobbling step forward. “Howard I need you to listen to me real careful, yeah? Switch on that big, wise, old brain of yours ‘cos this is difficult to say, alright?” Vince’s breath hitched but he forced himself to keep talking, and keep telling the truth rather than backtracking in to a convenient lie. “Howard, I love you. An’ I get it, you don’t rush in to things, an’ I ain’t gonna rush you neither. I’ve been waiting for this for most of my life, Howard, for a moment to tell you that I love you. I thought I’d missed my chance.” He smiled, though it felt strange, almost like he wanted to cry at the same time, which was a feeling he’d only experienced once before, as he’d sat alone on the deflating bouncy castle in the aftermath of Howard’s birthday party. He tried to smile properly but it just made the tears spring up even more and he made a show of playing with his hair as he took one final step, bringing his toe to toe with Howard’s scuffed boots. “I can wait, Howard. I can wait ‘til you’re ready. Only fools rush in, right? I can’t help falling in love, yeah, but I’m not gonna risk this. Not if you do really love me. You do... love me, don’t you, Howard?”

There was a moment of silence, the scratch of the needle as the record slowed, making the lack of a response more obvious, until Howard leant forward and drew Vince back in to a gentle, tentative kiss.

“Thank you, Vince. Thank you. I- I love you.”

Vince couldn’t hold back any longer, not after hearing with such certainty that Howard really did love him, that he’d finally managed to produce a grand gesture that Howard understood, that the plan had finally gone according to, well, plan. He lunged forward, the laughter bursting forth as the joy overwhelmed him. Howard welcomed Vince’s kisses and Vince made a point of keeping his hands firmly above the belt. He could wait. He would wait. After all, where would they be without their unresolved sexual tension? It would work out, Vince was sure of that. After all, some things were just meant to be, Elvis had said so, and Paul Panfer had taught Vince to trust what Elvis said, even when it was too romantic for a Panfer film.

It was going to have to be a double shrine, Vince decided as he slid his tongue in to Howard’s mouth and felt the man moan against him. He’d make a shrine and he’d play their song and he’d hope and he’d wait. He was good at waiting. He’d waited so long already. He hadn’t expected Howard to come back from Denmark, hadn’t expected him to actually watch ‘Blue Hawawe’ with him, or to respond so positively to Vince’s homemade ‘Blue Hawaii’ night. He hadn’t really believed Howard would drink with him or dance with him... or kiss him. He hadn’t expected to receive a second chance like this, and he wasn’t going to let it slip past him. The laughter bubbled out of him, like a river flowing down to the sea, naively drawn and highlighted in gold, and now Howard joined him, laughing joyfully against Vince’s lips, as beyond their colourful, ‘Blue Hawaii’ world, the moon smiled and babbled about the time he’d been drinking a pineapple cocktail and had seen Elvis serenading a peanut butter and jelly sandwich under the stars. And somewhere, beyond the stars, the ghost of Paul Panfer danced on his surf board, smiled, and licked at his own tit.


End file.
